Dead Down East Read online

  Michael went on, “It seems eccentric that we humans classify ourselves entirely separate from the other animals of the earth. Every creature that has visited us this morning is as fully conscious and aware of this environment as we are, and surely more so. Their lives depend precisely on that awareness. While we dote over our own personal histories, fears, expectations and other assorted trivialities, they act totally in the moment with no hesitation or trace of self-consciousness.”

  His words penetrated. For the next ten minutes we didn’t say a word. The breeze picked up slightly and pushed us gently along the bank. The oars now became unnecessary, so I set them inside the boat. Michael and I fished together in silence as if performing a ballet on water.

  Then, out of the blue, Michael asked, “Jesse, why don’t you write that novel?”

  “Well, Michael, if something exciting or significant ever happens to me, I might give it a try. You taught me a thing or two in class about imagery and the tempo of phrasing. At the moment, I have three livelihoods and still can barely make my mortgage payments. I suppose becoming an author might give me a fourth income stream. But to write a worthwhile novel, I will need a great mentor and an editor. Do you know any mature literature professors who have the time and the patience for that?”

  Michael grinned and replied, “At your service.”

  “Can I use your poem about the fish?”

  “Absolutely!”

  I smiled, “Well, if anything interesting ever does happen in my life, I’ll do just that; you have my word.”

  After a minute or so, Michael returned to something I had said earlier, “You mentioned that you have three livelihoods, Jesse, but I know only two of them. You are a bass player and singer in your band, Ocean Noises, and you are also a fine carpenter.”

  I peered back at him for a moment with an awkward, almost foolish, look on my face, and eventually said, “I’ll tell you, but only if you promise not to laugh out loud.”

  “I would never do that out here,” Michael replied, in a whimsical tone, “It might spook the fish.”

  “I didn’t tell you before because I imagined you’d think the occupation is too dodgy, or maybe a bit corny or pretentious. It’s not steady work by a long shot. I haven’t had a client for months, but…I am a licensed private investigator.”

  “You’re not packing heat in your tackle box are you?” he chuckled. “Till now I’ve had only one rule for you when you visit us at Bear Spring Camps. Your cell phone must be turned off, or on silent, at all times. You can use it, of course, if a real emergency arises. Now, I’ll have to add another rule. No guns at the lake.”

  “Not to worry, Michael. I keep my .38 Special under lock and key in my home. I’ve fired it only two or three times so far, and that was at a shooting range in Augusta. I hope I never have to pull it out on a job.”

  “How long have you been a detective?” he asked.

  “About six years.”

  Michael couldn’t help himself. To hell with the fish. He laughed out loud. “You’ve been a private investigator for six years, and this is the first I’ve heard of it? Sounds like you’ve been a little too private. Who are your clients?”

  “I haven’t had very many, maybe a couple dozen in all. A divorce case here, a missing person there, and occasionally I’ve been hired to protect someone for a short period of time. When that happens, I have to be armed. It scares the daylights out of me, of course, but it comes with the territory, and I’m gradually getting used to it. I also provide advice on security systems. That’s about it so far. I’m in the yellow pages of the Augusta phone book under my real name, ‘Jesse Thorpe, Licensed Investigator, Bonded and Insured.’ Would you care for one of my business cards?” I said with a grin. “I carry all three of them in my wallet.”

  Michael made no reply. He just smiled and cast his fly again near the bank. Within a few moments, my PI advertisement was lost to the lapping of the water and rustling of the trees. Then, as if on cue, Michael had a rise on his popper. Without missing a beat, he gave his fly rod a firm snap, and he hooked a nice smallmouth. His rod bowed as it strained with the weight of the fish. The bass put up a valiant fight against an experienced angler. Light tackle gave the fish a fair chance to shake free, but on this day, Michael prevailed. After leaping and diving for several minutes, including one spectacular dance atop the water on his tail, the fish was clearly spent. Michael steered him near the boat, and I slipped the net under and brought him in. Immediately he flipped out of the netting and onto the aluminum hull, and made quite a racket until Michael managed to get his thumb inside its mouth and lift him up for us to admire. He was beautiful, greenish brown in color, and weighed almost three pounds. He was breathing heavily, and his dorsal fin stood straight up, rigid and menacing.

  I’m certain that Michael enjoyed releasing this fish even more than catching him. He held the bass firmly by the lower jaw, at a slight angle to the horizon, so that the weight of the fish kept its mouth open, while he carefully extracted the hook. Michael admired the fierce, yet tired look in the smallmouth’s eyes, and then gently returned him to the water. We both watched the bass regain his bearings as he slipped down into the sleepy water. It occurred to me that Michael had released the fish as if he were turning loose one of his own sons from the family nest, tenderly into the vast expanse. Together in that simple, private moment, our wonder and vulnerabilities mingled. We marveled without words at the unspoiled, natural beauty of this place…pines, birches and maples as far as the eye can see, surrounding a prehistoric lake. “Mysteriously we took to flight.”

  Michael smiled at me and said, “It’s been a great morning so far. Let’s go in and have some breakfast!”

  “Sounds good. I’m starved,” I replied.

  I reeled in my line, took hold of the popper and attached its hook to the tiny metal loop on the under side of my fly rod. Then I put my Orvis down along the edge of the boat, set the oars carefully next to our fly rods, and sat down in the bow.

  Michael put the gearshift lever into neutral, pulled out the choke on the 6 HP Johnson outboard motor, pushed the primer button once, and gave a strong pull on the starter cord. The motor coughed up a little smoke and then began to rumble. That put an end to our otherwise tranquil morning.

  He pushed in the choke, eased the gearshift into forward and turned the throttle. The boat hesitated a brief moment as the propeller engaged and the transom wedged itself into the water, lifting me up with the bow almost a foot into the air. Then we eased back down as the boat planed out, and we surged forward. A slight turn on the handle of the outboard set our course across a mile and a half of open water, straight toward three-dozen rustic cabins lined up on the other side of the pond. Great Pond!

  Why call this a “pond” I thought, for at least the hundredth time? I guess if comparing it to Huron, Superior, or even Moosehead, it is a pond. But for me it’s a “lake,” and a mighty one at that. It’s seven miles long, and four miles wide. It has a shoreline of almost fifty miles. With two of us in the boat, our top speed is about twelve miles per hour. It would take us at least four hours to circumnavigate this “pond.”

  I shivered just a bit as the brisk morning air hit me in the face. It might be early June, but that doesn’t mean it’s warm in central Maine. I zipped my thermal lined sweatshirt all the way to the top, pulled the hood over my head, and tightened the cord under my chin until my ears were warm and snug inside. It would be a ten-minute ride across the lake to our camp. I leaned forward into the wind.

  2

  Shot in the Dark

  Michael cut back on the throttle and we glided slowly through the shallow water to our dock. I stepped out and reached back to steady the boat as Michael hit the kill button and released the pin that locks the motor in place along the transom. He tipped the outboard forward, lifted the shaft and propeller out of the water and locked it there.

  Michael then gathered our rods, tackle boxes, net and seat cushions and handed them to me one by on
e. I set them on the dock and took Michael’s hand to help him out of the boat. Taking some of our things with him, Michael made his way to the cabin, while I secured the boat to the mooring post.

  I grabbed the rest of our gear from the dock, looked toward the cabin and saw Kathleen on the porch, smiling and waving to me. Kathleen has a warm, natural smile. She’s spirited and sharp as a tack. Her hair was trimmed very short all around, naturally dark and slightly graying on the sides. She has a smattering of freckles under her eyes that make her look younger than her years. Her face is rare, like a gem. I walked onto the porch, put down the fishing gear, and gave her a big hug.

  Whenever I hug Kathleen, she hugs back with abandon. She’s not the least bit shy of taking me to her bosom. I’m always the first to let go. It’s as if I know instinctively that I’m entitled to just so much of the mojo, but I’m more than content to let her charge my batteries.

  “How was the fishing?” she asked.

  “Well, Michael got the best fish, but I managed to catch a few. It was a fine morning. Fog covered the water until the sun rose, and the lake was smooth as glass. Perfect for fishing and spending time with Michael.”

  “Hungry?” she asked.

  “You bet!”

  “All right then, let’s go to breakfast,” she said.

  “I need to wash up first,” I replied. “You can start walking without me. I’ll catch up.”

  Michael and Kathleen’s younger son, Tyler, now twenty-four years old, arrived from Boston the night before. He came out of the cabin and said, “Hi, Jesse. You guys got an early start.”

  “I love it when it’s quiet.”

  “I do better when the sun’s going down,” Tyler said. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m really a Wyeth.”

  “I’m sure you are, Tyler,” I said, “You’re probably just a late bloomer.”

  “I’m not an early one, that’s for sure,” he replied, as he shuffled down the steps and onto the path.

  I washed my hands quickly and hurried out of the cabin. I jogged a bit and came along side of Kathleen, who was bringing up the rear. We walked together along the lake in front of a few cabins and then crossed through a parking space onto the dirt road that leads to the dining hall.

  “You know what I like best about staying here?” Kathleen asked.

  “No cooking or cleaning?” I suggested.

  “Well, yes, that is nice. But what I like best is that we totally lose contact with the outside world.”

  “Me too,” I said.

  In the cabin there is no TV, no WiFi, not even a radio to feed our hunger for information. The outside world can do whatever it pleases. Inevitably, like a top wound up 14.7 billion years ago, it just keeps on spinning a path of its own. But in the cabin or on Great Pond, time stands still. I had joined Michael, Kathleen and Tyler only the evening before, but in less than twelve hours, my tether to the world was already losing its grip.

  As we approached Jamaica Point Road that passes in front of the main house, we could see quite a number of cars parked on both sides of the road. The camp was nearly full. Michael and Tyler were about twenty feet ahead of us as we crossed the road. We followed them up the steps to the long, enclosed porch in front of the dining room.

  Through the open doorway we could hear the dining hall humming with chatter, perhaps a bit louder and more animated than usual, although morning and breakfast is always a boisterous affair. Phil Brookings and his wife Darlene were sitting on the porch. Phil and Darlene live in Portland and have been coming here for decades. They usually arrive in mid-May and stay for about a month. Several of the other faces seemed familiar, but I wasn’t sure of their names. Phil seemed downcast. He stared at us with a bewildered look, and then said with considerable consternation, “Can you believe it?”

  “Believe what?” Michael asked.

  “You haven’t heard?” he said, as if he couldn’t believe that either.

  “Not a thing,” said Michael. “Since supper last evening, we’ve been completely isolated at the lake. What happened?”

  “William Lavoilette was murdered last night!”

  Michael froze like an ice statue. We all did. When this news had fully sunken in, Michael muttered, “Oh, my God!” The words tumbled out of his mouth and fell to the floor.

  Tyler, Kathleen and I just stood there, stunned by what had happened. We sat down around Phil and began plying him for details.

  Phil took a deep breath and continued, “So far, there has been very little information available from the media. Apparently he was shot to death at about 10:30 last night, just south of Brunswick on Sebascodegan Island, a few minutes drive from his summer cottage. He was found lying on the side of the road about 20 feet in front of his car. There are no suspects in custody. In fact, there are no suspects at all. But the police and the FBI are not about to give out details that might compromise their investigation.”

  The sadness on Kathleen’s face was palpable. She turned to her husband and whispered, “Oh, Michael, the governor is dead!”

  We wandered through the maze of guests in the dining hall and sat down at our usual table by the windows in the back.

  Michael and Kathleen are much more committed to politics than I am. They are true activists. They emerged from the ‘60’s without doubting their course, and never looked back. In quiet ways, I admire their tenacity and their persistent drive for fairness and right action. That drive has mellowed and matured for them both over the years, but the fire is still there, and the water in the cauldron boils up and spills over the pot now and again. Almost certainly that will be happening over this event, once the shockwaves subside. But for now, they just looked dumbstruck.

  All four of us liked our governor, William Lavoilette. Elected three and a half years earlier, he was a breath of fresh air in Maine politics. He was young, maybe 45 years old, personable, and governed in an independent way. He was not the pride of the powerful corporate sector, and some extreme religious groups ridiculed him, but a majority of Mainers liked him well enough. He was favored to win reelection in the fall, unless something unexpected happened. Now it had.

  William Lavoilette was affable and handsome, even dashing by the conservative standards of Maine. There was considerable money in his parents’ family, but he had also managed to do well in his own business ventures. He loved the sea and developed a small fleet of whale watching and sport fishing boats along Maine’s rugged coast.

  Although the rest of the dining room was buzzing loudly, we sat quietly for quite a while, which is totally out of character for us. We spoke briefly with our waitress to place our orders, and nibbled on the muffins that were already on the table when we sat down. We were lost in contemplation, oblivious to our immediate surroundings. Collectively, our thoughts began to form into a single question, “Who could have done this?”

  Michael spoke first, “Politically, William Lavoilette had a few enemies, of course, but nothing out of the ordinary. No one comes to mind who would possibly resort to murder.”

  Michael paused and then went on, “The ‘titans’ of industry found him to be a little too pro environment, but he was not an extremist. He recognized that Maine’s natural beauty is important for tourism. The ocean, the lakes, and the clean rural countryside puts the bread—and potatoes—on the table.”

  It was a stroke of luck that William Lavoilette had been elected governor in the first place. The sitting governor, Clayton Andrews, had been running for reelection. I guess you might say that he was, and still is, a typical, professional politician. He governed from the middle as best he could. He allowed both the winds of public opinion and the tides of corporate money to steer his ship of state. For decades that strategy had worked well, not just in Maine, but throughout the country. Now, that status quo doesn’t seem to apply anymore. Extreme views and cranky contenders have wormed their way into politics across America, even Down East.

  Governor Andrews was outflanked on his right by John David Fickett. Fickett barely los
t to Andrews in the June state primary. Miffed at his loss, he ran as an Independent, thereby splitting the popular vote into three shares. William Lavoilette prevailed with 38% of the vote.

  The Maine Constitution does not provide for a runoff in the event that no candidate receives a clear majority of the votes cast for governor. A plurality will do. This opens the door on both sides of the aisle when a popular independent throws his hat into the ring. Those are, I suppose, the risks and the possible rewards on today’s political landscape. This is not an age of civility and common ground in politics, assuming there ever was such an age.

  By the time our waitress arrived with our meals, silence had once again descended upon our table. She checked with us to see if everything was all right. We nodded in unison and thanked her, and then the quiet resumed, broken only by the occasional clinking of silverware on plates and coffee cups on saucers.

  As if thinking aloud, Kathleen muttered, “Cherchez la femme.”

  “That’s always a possibility when it comes to crimes of passion,” Michael said.

  Each of us shared what little we knew about William’s wife, Rebecca Lyndon Lavoilette, who, to our knowledge, was the only woman intimate with the governor. William and Rebecca appeared to be happily married. He met her while they were at Bowdoin College in Brunswick, Maine. He majored in Earth and Oceanic Science, and she majored in Environmental Studies. They were married shortly after they graduated and continued to live near Brunswick for the next ten years, where he began to build his boating business.

  As the First Lady, Rebecca had been a little stiff and formal, especially when compared to her husband’s amiable style, but I imagined this to be a normal reaction of an otherwise shy person in the limelight. As William became more and more successful, she became increasingly philanthropic, donating much of her time and energies to a number of charities across the state.